


Vigil

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Series: The Man Who Waits [6]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Engwith, Gen, mild Forgotten Sanctum spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-20 23:46:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17032227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: Kith are dancing to the music loud enough to reach rooftops, to reach the gods. Merry enough to make them smile, for an entirely different reason than joy. He can hear the notes resounding within him, too – distorted and hollow, as if echoing in a deep empty well.Thaos leans against the stone balustrade, pressing his palm flat against the stone. There are words spilling from his mind like a stream, but he does not write down a single one. The stone will remember, if it survives.





	Vigil

**Author's Note:**

> (prompt 70: rebuild)

Lanterns are burning all across the city – new constellations rising up into the sky. Tomorrow, they will fall. Tomorrow, the real work begins.

Kith are dancing to the music loud enough to reach rooftops, to reach the gods. Merry enough to make them smile, for an entirely different reason than joy. He can hear the notes resounding within him, too – distorted and hollow, as if echoing in a deep empty well.

Thaos leans against the balustrade, pressing his palm flat against the stone. There are words spilling from his mind like a stream, but he does not write down a single one. The stone will remember, if it survives.

The chronicles will remember. Not the tales of the kith, but the annals of the gods, hidden from the sights of most mortals. The book of the world, of souls. A terrible, terrible weight.

There is no need to record it by conventional means; no thought is ever lost. It is fitting, perhaps, that Wael oversees the archives; history is vast like their titan body. Twisted, immense. Monstrous, maybe. Difficult to discern where it ends and begins, and what parts it is made of; ever changing and growing, its shape impossible to truly describe.

Its tendrils grasp all and never let go, even if those it traps are later erased from its pages. Even if it is overwritten, and not even those forgotten can escape its hold. But that is the way of the world; that is how it has always been.

That is how it will always be, even after they finish rebuilding its foundations, because the kith and the gods are made of the same essence. But if there is the slightest chance that they might one day be more, better – if there is… That is why they are doing it. For that chance. Not even to get it – only to seek, to see if it exists. The most they can do. The least they can do.

The work will be gruelling. But a chance – maybe – the faintest glimmer of hope – barely a promise of light somewhere above the catacombs – that is preferable to merely giving in to the turns of the Wheel. If their souls will be ground to dust in the end, better that it should happen for a reason.

“Eminence?” A quiet, familiar voice disturbs his musings; was he lost in thoughts so deeply he did not hear her footsteps?

Thaos turns, and the missionary smiles at him timidly, her hand reaching out in a shy invitation. She is right; he is not in the mood for festivities, but it is not a night to be alone.

He waits too long; her hand falls. “I am sorry,” she apologises. “I didn’t mean…” she breaks off, flustered. But she does not leave.

How can he say that he is grateful for the distraction? Very few are aware of the real price they will all have to pay, and she is not one of them. A priestess and a scribe, committed to the cause, one of many – the only one thoughtful enough to look for him and to know where to seek. Why would he punish compassion with the burden of such knowledge? No. Especially not tonight.

“We don’t need to dance,” she explains quietly. “It’s just… We will all be on our own, from tomorrow on. I thought that tonight… no one should…”

“I understand,” he interrupts gently, taking her hand – slender and warm and fitting perfectly against his, as any two hands do. “I am grateful.” He offers one of those well-practised smiles that always work as they are supposed to – but that does not mean they cannot be honest. “And we can dance, if you wish. I’m certain many would find the sight of me dancing very entertaining.”

“I’m sure many would.” Her smile is very brief, flashing when she draws a breath in, snuffed out when she exhales. “But we don’t have to.” She takes in the sight of the city below them, all music and light, and then the relative quiet of the terrace; the shadows; the stillness and tension of waiting. “Silence can be terrible, when faced alone,” she whispers. “But when shared, it can be holy.” Her fingers slip between his. “Or kind, at least,” she adds in a small voice, glancing up at him.

In the dim light, her eyes seem dull and dark, but he remembers that during daytime they are like earth and rain, turning to honey in direct sunlight. Not sharp like adra; not like the too-vivid colours of the archipelago. Softer, slightly muted hues, like nature back home.

She looks nothing like Woedica, and tonight, he could love her for that alone.


End file.
